


Faith

by traversewonderland



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:02:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 18,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27502738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/traversewonderland/pseuds/traversewonderland
Summary: When Sherlock chooses to reveal himself to the gallery owner and art teacher Ruth when he returns, John Watson learns there was one more known Holmes. Ruth had married Mycroft young, but he abruptly cut ties just after Sherlock and John met. This is how they were reunited, and how they were brought together in the first place.TW: references to suicide in regards to Reichenbach and Sherlock's drug use and overdose
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Original Character, Mycroft Holmes/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 55





	1. A Reunion

** _August 2013: London_ **

“Ruth?” she heard behind her, turning on her heel to face Sherlock Holmes. He was still as tall and intense as she remembered. Her breath caught, however, when she remembered that he had been dead for two years. The hairs on her arms stood up, and she stepped back, brow furrowed. 

“What?” she said plainly, eyes narrowing as her mind ran. She supposed his brother could do that, couldn’t he? Mycroft was perfectly able to make people disappear if need be, and it seemed the need had been there with everything she’d seen in the papers. It was difficult to avoid, and avoiding the exploits of the Holmes brothers was something she’d done for the last few years.

“No surprise?” he asked, quirking a brow with his hands in the same coat she’d seen him in since he was a messy twenty something falling in and out of dilapidated buildings. There had been a time where Ruth kept a small binder in her purse, a dual purpose planner and list of Sherlock’s favorite drug dens. When Mycroft called her, concerned because he couldn’t find Sherlock, she could run through the notebook, Mycroft starting at the top and her at the bottom until they found whatever dirty mattress he had fallen asleep on.

“You forget I know exactly what your brother can do. Frankly, I’m more frustrated I spent time mourning you.” And she had. It had happened the same year she’d been sent into her isolation, having to start her life again without the boys. So much of her adult life had been spent entangled with the two solitary men that she had to remind herself how to socialize. That was difficult to do when the talk of the country was the death of someone you’d only severed contact with weeks before.

Her hand went to the ring on her right hand, twisting the band back and forth. When she realized the blonde from the papers, John Watson, was at Sherlock’s elbow, she blinked, shaking her head as though it would ground her. As so often happened when her mind began to race, it felt as though she wasn’t in her body. She was sure that, despite what she told Sherlock, shock would set in later. She’d assumed there was one less Holmes walking the Earth for years, and now knowing both boys were alive she felt comforted in a way she hadn’t expected. 

“I suppose you do,” he said, eyes darting to the CCTV cameras dotting the corners. Ruth’s eyes followed his, and she found herself wondering if Mycroft knew. Was he watching them, and would he be surprised to see her so calm? She dropped the hand toying with the ring, determined that, if he was somewhere, she’d continue her feigned nonchalance.

“Right, who are you?” John asked. Maybe she should introduce herself. It didn’t take an Holmes to know the doctor was on edge, and she didn’t feel like causing him anymore confusion.

“Ruth,” she said warmly, extending a hand. John shook it firmly.

“John Watson,” he said, taking note of her omission of a last name. “So you knew about it too? Is there anyone in all of London who didn’t?”

“I didn’t. I just know those two. It doesn’t surprise me. I’ve known Sherlock since we were eighteen.”

“Really? Because he didn’t have any friends when I met him.”

“He had family though.” 

“Who? Mycroft? He’ll protect him, but they were hardly close.”

“So you play mediator now?” she laughed.

“Hardly. He’s on my side,” Sherlock snorted. “You always sided with Mycroft.”

“Hardly,” she mimicked. “I got him to leave you be about working with Lestrade. I just made sure we could find you when…”

They were both quiet, Ruth’s hand going back to the ring, Mycroft Holmes be damned. She could see confusion etched into the doctor’s face as she shifted awkwardly. Sherlock took her in for a moment, finally translating his observations. She still wore the band on her right hand, she had lost weight, there was no longer paint caked under her nails but there were specs of fiber on her clothes. Yarn or embroidery? Both, it appeared. Her bag was heavy enough he could see she was still a reader. She didn’t paint anymore, though. But she was also out during normal school and working hours. Was that a logo on her bag? With her name? She’d finally opened a shop hadn’t she? Or wasa it a gallery? So she was doing well overall?

“Sorry, how do you know him?” John asked again, finding the interaction strange enough. The fact she knew both Sherlock and Mycroft was another layer that left the doctor struggling to keep his head above water. Sherlock’s lack of being dead was enough to process. He didn’t need these vague dances around what they were discussing.

“College.” Her voice was short, arms crossing again.

“She’s my sister-in-law,” Sherlock said instead, and Ruth let out a huff.

“Ex sister-in-law as far as anything practical is concerned.”

“You two haven’t filed.”

“Your brother is the one who left.”

“You’re both the one’s still wearing your rings, just on the other hand.”

“I haven’t spoken to him in, what, three years?”

“And yet, you’re married to him.”

“If he wants to be divorced, he’ll have to put forth the effort.”

“You two are so bloody stubborn.”

“He is. I call him regularly.”

“The last seven months, he’s been helping me.”

“That’s paperwork, I’m sure.”

“No, leg work.”

“He despises legwork.”

“You’d be amazed what can change when you have to get your brother out of Serbia.”

“He still had two years, five months before that.”

“Wait, Mycroft is married?” John asked, narrowing his eyes as a hand went to his forehead.

“Do keep up, John,” Sherlock said, setting off. “I’ll text you, Ruth.”

“You better, Holmes.”


	2. Otherwise Engaged

** _October 2000: Cambridge_ **

“Sherlock?” 

“No, Ruth,” she’d said gently, watching Sherlock from the other side of the apartment’s common area. “I-is this Mycroft?”

“Who are you?”

“Sherlock’s friend. I guess. He helps me in my chem class.”

“Why are you calling me from his phone?” She could hear the shuffle of papers, knowing he’d gotten started working since graduate school. When Sherlock got high enough, he’d talk about his family. 

“He’s real fucked up.” The shuffling of papers stopped, and Ruth tensed. She hated having to do this, but she was afraid. They’d taken to doing their work together. She excelled in the arts, so he was helping her get through her STEM courses. Meanwhile, she kept him fed and alive. The latter was becoming harder as she realized he’d going from drinking at the parties she got him into to shooting up something on the couch.

“Excuse me?” Mycroft had not been home at the same time as his brother since Sherlock’s high school graduation, and now he was regretting it. He was focused on helping Uncle Rudy, getting things in line at Sherrinford. He was twenty-six, so for anyone else, it would be acceptable. Right now, however, he wanted to kick himself. It was his job, Rudy had said, to watch his brother.

“He used to just drink a lot. Like everybody. He’s incredibly high- the highest I’ve ever seen him- and I’m not sure what he’s shooting up, but he’s shooting up. And I just felt like someone in his family should know?”

“Keep him safe. Call an ambulance if he overdoses. I’ll be there in an hour and a half. I’ll decide if he needs to go to hospital then.”

“Can do,” she nodded tightly. “He’s in my apartment. Do you have something to write the address?”

“Give me a moment,” he said, and she heard him get a notepad. When he was ready, she gave him the address, following his instructions to ensure Sherlock was on his side in case he got sick. He wasn’t shivering, which Mycroft informed her was a good sign. If she’d been less socially aware, she might have asked if this was a longstanding problem or if there was a family history. Instead, she tucked a worn blanket around Sherlock and waited for Mycroft. It was nearly midnight when he arrived.

“Hi,” she said, letting him in. There was no way the man in a rumpled suit standing on her doorstep was anyone but Sherlock Holmes’ brother who worked for the government. Ruth’s own father had been an ambassador for the United States government. When she was eighteen, they were ready to return home and she chose to stay for college, though they wanted her to return to the east coast. She knew what an entry level government employee looked like.

“Where is he?” She led the way to her living room, where the younger brother was sprawled on her couch. He’d finally fallen asleep a half hour before. Mycroft stopped in his tracks when he saw how slim Sherlock had become over the last two years. His sleeves were pushed up, and Mycroft could see the telltale marks. Suddenly, he was furious. “You allow him to do this in front of you?”

“Never!” she snapped, eyes wide. “We’ve been friends since we got here. I get home and find him like this. Usually he’s just high. He normally shows up high.” Mycroft’s eyes narrowed on the bit of rubber tubing and needle beside his brother.

“Oh Sherlock,” he said softly, going to gather the paraphernalia. “We’ll take it to hospital with us for them to dispose of.”

“We’re taking him to the hospital?”

“He’ll need to come off it. Detox will take a week.”

“You can stay here if you need. I’ve a spare room.”

“Just help me get him to hospital. I’ll deal with the aftermath tomorrow.” Mycroft moved to wake his brother, doing his best to support his brother. Ruth went to Sherlock’s other side, helping to walk him into the parking lot and loading Sherlock into the car. It was two in the morning before they were back, and Ruth let him in again, leading him to the second bedroom.

“You don’t have a roommate?” he asked, brow lifted as he looked at her.

“My father pays half the rent to pretend he talks to me on the phone.”

“Ah,” he said, unsure how else to respond. “Thank you, Ruth. I could not bear to lose him. I know he views me a villain, but I just can't spend my days telling him stories and making deductions with him.”

“Mycroft, he’s just a brat. Call him more? I truly think he’s acting out.”

“What makes you say that?”

“When he’s high, he tells the stories you told him. One about an East Wind.”

“When he was a child he wanted to be a pirate.”

“Get some rest Mycroft.”

** _February 2014: Speedy’s_ **

“John and Mary are marrying this summer,” Sherlock told her as they sat across from each other. “I’m the best man.”

“Look at you,” Ruth smiled, hands around the mug. “And this will be quite different than being Mycroft’s best man.”

“Exactly. For John's stag, we’re actually going out.”

“You drank with Mycroft.”

“Fine scotch and cigars in a bar and going home by eleven.”

“I did marry a man of habit.”

“You should come to the wedding, Ruth. Meet everyone.”

“I know John, but not that well.”

“He’d appreciate your presence. And I think you’d like Mary.”

“Do you have a plus one?”

“Not officially, but if that will get you there, I do.”

“No, Sherlock. I don’t like weddings, and I know what you’re doing.”

“What?” he asked, lips pursed as he feigned innocence. Ruth knew that face and tilt of his chin. He was planning something, and she suspected it had to do with his brother. One thing she did know was that in the first weeks after Mycroft left, she’d received texts. Anthea was insistent Mycroft was becoming unbearable. So was Sherlock. She was certain that, with no one to force him home or force him to leave them be, he was.

“John knows Mycroft. He's invited to the wedding, isn’t he?”

“That beside the point.”

“No, Sherlock.”

** _February 2014: Holmes Manor_ **

Mycroft stood before the kitchen counter, the invitation to the Watson wedding sitting on the counter. It seemed like a social requirement for him to go, but he was acutely aware Ruth was close to Sherlock again. It had only been a year from their separation to the fall. It had not been easy to tell Sherlock, but he’d assured his brother his friendship with Ruth had existed before he met her, and it would be no bother for Sherlock and Ruth’s friendship to continue. That said, his brother confronted her once. He’d watched it on the cameras six months after they separated. It was strange after ten years to not be speaking to her, but it was the safest choice for her.

It became apparent quickly that his brother found him more of a bother now that he was apart from Ruth. He’d seen them run into each other again when Sherlock returned. Since they’d lived apart- he couldn’t bring himself to say separated- she’d thrived. She opened a gallery. She added an art supply shop. She added classes. It had been in the beginning stages when he last saw her in person, but to see it fully realized made him proud. One night, he’d gone himself, wrapped in a coat and a hat and a fake accent. Rudy had always told him caring was not an advantage, and he thought it pessimism. He thought it pessimism until Eurus requested to meet James Moriarty. 

He tried to shake the memories from his head, attention returning to the invitation before him. She’d be there, he knew. If John and Mary did not invite her, Sherlock would. They met at Speedy’s every couple of weeks. He found himself wondering if it would be safe for him to tell her the truth one day. Late June would not be the time. 

_Tell John I am grateful for the invitation, but otherwise engaged. -MH_


	3. So Boring

** _March 2014: Speedy’s_ **

“Sherlock, I used to go out with you. You know how to drink.”

“I don’t know how to do so in moderation.”

“John’s stag party isn’t about moderation.”

“I have to do it correctly, Ruth. It’s a last hoorah, isn’t it?”

“Sherlock,” she laughed lightly. “He’s still going to be your friend.”

“But he will be married. That ends the nights out.”

“How many nights out have you two had?”

“That’s not the point!”

The realization Ruth did not like was that this was the first time she’d seen Sherlock in a year and he was on edge in a way she had not seen since university. It worried her. Something she had realized in the fourteen years that she had known Sherlock Holmes was that he responded to feeling abandoned with self destruction. Did he claim not to feel John was abandoning him? Of course. Did he spiral out into partying and drinking and cocaine and then heroin when he decided his brother had abandoned him for his career? Ruth felt the answer was yes. It was also a response to boredom, she wouldn’t deny, but he also felt boredom when whoever his selected person was disappeared. Mycroft going to work. Ruth marrying Mycroft. His last roommate before John being unable to handle his lifestyle.

“Well, Sherlock, I don’t know what to tell you.”

“Useless,” he huffed, putting down money for his coffee before sulking off. She sighed, head resting in her hands.

** _November 2003: St. Bart’s_ **

“Did he have a list?”

“Of course,” she said softly, standing in the corner of the hospital waiting room. “He’s stable.”

“I cannot come until this meeting ends.” It was an unspoken fact between them. He couldn’t drop everything every time. They had to gauge if this was a life or death moment for the younger Holmes. He’d spent a week in the hospital before, his prognosis fluctuating back and forth. This time, they knew he’d live, so Mycroft could come by at the end of the work day. Ruth never asked for details, but Mycroft had reached a point he could pull strings for little things: tickets, visiting hours, and speeding up waiting times.

“I’ll see you when you get here, Mycroft. He’ll be alright.”

“This time.”

“I love you.” 

“I love you too.”

She went back to Sherlock’s room. He was asleep, and she could see now that he was as slim as the first night she’d met Mycroft. Ever since the wedding, she hadn’t spent as much time with him. He’d been floating between jobs and flats, and Ruth had been teaching art classes and settling into the home she and Mycroft had selected. She saw now how slim and tired he looked. She always wanted to hold him like a child when they found him in these states, and she often wondered if something happened when he was young that left him an overgrown child with an adult’s access to dangerous substances. 

“Ruth?” he muttered, blinking awake. 

“Hey, Sherlock.”

“You interrupted my high.”

There it was; she wanted to punch him again. It had barely been a month since the wedding, meaning a month since she’d seen him, and this was happening again. What was going to happen when Mycroft returned from work trips or they had children?

“You were going to die.”

“How much your life would change! Continue shacking up with my brother.”

“Shut up, Sherlock. I found you in your opium den because you weren’t answering my texts.”

“You called Mycroft, as you always do.”

“He’s my husband, and your brother.”

“And now you’re his _wife_ aren’t you? Spending your days decorating and cooking and whatever else it is you do while my brother is at work.”

“I can’t run around the city getting into trouble with you, Sherlock.”

“You were never stopped before.”

“We were in college. I’m working and married and balancing it all. And Mycroft will be leaving for work more, so I’m trying to be a newlywed before they send him to God knows where for God knows how long. You’ll have all of my attention then. But for right now, I am electing to give it to my husband.”

“You’ve just gotten so _boring_ , Ruth.”

She knew his final comment on the matter was meant to be an insult, but as she often had to remind Mycroft, there were other ways to funnel his intelligence into something else. Mycroft shared-or in reality overshadowed- the intellect his brother had, but for him, boredom led to reading literature and learning languages and developing skills. 

“I’m sorry, Sherlock.”

** _March 2014: London_ **

The idea that Sherlock was on a precipice wouldn’t leave her. She went to the studio, prepping for the pottery class the next day before settling by the fire in the London apartment Mycroft had gotten for work. He’d told her to stay there, having already had his things taken to the house and her things put into his work flat. It had been weeks before she was ready to add any touches of herself to the space, relishing in the style that was all him. She could smell the cigars he smoked on particularly stressful evenings and his cologne on the furniture. Once the smell was gone, she started to replace things to make it more her. He was really gone if she couldn’t smell him in the place.

_Sherlock is going to be in danger after the wedding. I can feel it. Be as indifferent to me as you’d like. However, you know I have a sense for this. -Ruth_

She dropped her phone onto the coffee table, pouring a glass of wine. The ten years between their first meeting and the evening Mycroft informed her he did not wish to live as her husband anymore had seen Ruth becoming the one able to connect the factors. Once she realized their wedding had pushed Sherlock to the edge, she could tell Mycroft that the dangerous nights were coming. She’d never been wrong, though it was Mycroft who, once warned, could pinpoint the night. When her phone buzzed, she saw Mycroft’s contact and her eyes went wide. It was as though little had changed. The contact picture beside his name showed him in a tux, but in the back of a car on their way back. She’d been tipsy, she knew, though she couldn’t remember the event. But she’d taken dozens of pictures, all of him giving her the bemused smile she loved so. Ruth scrambled to get the phone, unlocking it and opening the first message she’d received in four years.

_You do. I’ll watch him. Thank you, Ruth. -Mycroft_


	4. Crisis Counselor

**_October 2000: Cambridge_ **

“They’re transitioning him to rehabilitation once he detoxes,” Mycroft said softly on that Saturday morning when he returned from checking in on his brother’s progress. Ruth hadn’t known what to do, so while he was out, she cleaned and baked a cake. Sherlock had remarked on his brother’s sweet tooth many times. 

“How long?”

“Thirty days.” His hand scrubbed over his face, and she put a hand on his shoulder. 

“You’re welcome to stay here whenever you need.”

“I may take you up on that. Visiting hours are on Saturdays. I could work in London during the week and arrive here Friday nights?”

“I’ll be sure the guest room is ready.” He slipped the coat of his suit off. It was too big for his slim frame, but from what his brother had said, weight melted off when he graduated. 

“Thank you Ruth. I cannot believe that this slipped my notice. I’ve been far too absent.”

“Your parents have seen him, Mycroft. It is not your job to be his keeper.”

“Yes, it is,” he said plainly, and in a tone she knew better than to argue with. 

“I made a cake,” she said lamely, settling beside him at her kitchen table. Mycroft looked to the counter, spotting the cake stand and chuckling softly. 

“My mother always did the same thing.”

“Mine too. I guess it’s what they do.”

“Indeed,” he mused, stepping to her kitchen smoothly to cut himself a slice. She had told him to make himself at home, and it appeared that he had. “Mummy and father will be here tomorrow.”

“I can make dinner for them. I want all of this to be as easy for you guys as possible.”

“How are you so calm, Ruth?” he asked, setting her own slice of cake before her and sitting beside her.

“My cousin has been in and out of the hospital. Not addiction, but mental health. I love Sherlock dearly. But, I also know that I cannot fix him. We can support him.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Thank you. I’m sorry about Sherlock.”

“Thank you,” he said softly. He took a bite of the cake, a hum escaping him. “This is delightful. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she smiled softly. “I figured we could watch a movie? Or go somewhere? Keep you distracted. I have to work on homework tonight. But until then.”

“I’m very fortunate you’re here. I’d quite like that. And I have paperwork to work on this evening, so we’re on the same schedule.”

“Perfect,” she smiled softly, squeezing his shoulder as she went to dress. 

**_November 2014: London_ **

“Mycroft?” she said softly, cradling her phone. She knew he preferred the phone to text message, and she had a bad feeling as to the content of this call. It had been four years since she heard his voice in anything but the home videos she still kept tucked away in a folder on her hard drive.

“Ruth,” he said, voice full of relief to hear her. Once he knew Sherlock was pursuing something to do with Magnussen, he was uncomfortable. He knew what kinds of things were coming, preparing himself to clean whatever mess Sherlock made. It appeared his brother had relapsed. He’d faked a relationship. He’d gotten himself shot, and Mycroft had been forced to call their parents. 

“Is Sherlock okay?” She always knew too well what was happening. He supposed she had reason to be suspicious. In four years he’d ignored each text and each voicemail, save her word of warning. Of course, she’d been right, and John Watson had called him. Though this drug den was not from the list Ruth had made long ago.

“He’s been shot, I’m afraid.”

“What? Myc, is he okay?” He hadn’t heard her this concerned since the worst overdose they’d seen, the one before he knew Lestrade and could follow cases.

“He pulled through surgery. We’ll find out in the next few days, if he can be kept under control. Janine has sold stories. She’s quite sore Sherlock feigned a relationship for a break in.”

“Jesus. I’ll go to visit him.”

“Do not let him get you caught up in what he’s doing now, Ruth. I promise you, this is no normal case. I forbid you getting involved.”

“I haven’t been brought into one since college, Mycroft. You truly think that after twelve years, I’ll get into whatever this is?”

“I’m not there to stop you.”

“That was your choice, Mycroft. You have no say in what I choose to do.” 

He could tell he’d touched a nerve because she hung up immediately. Knowing Ruth, she was going to cry. Sherlock was hurt and he chose that moment to press on a wound he knew was still raw. With his phone returned to his pocket, he delicately twisted the band on his right hand as he took his seat by the fire. It was selfish, he knew, to have taken the country house she’d decorated with the garden she’d carefully grown. He had a housekeeper and gardener, the only people allowed in his space when he was away. The housekeeper he had carefully screened still came from an agency. The gardener, however, had to be top tier. He’d screened them, and examined each property they worked, determined that, were they ever to reunite, Ruth’s garden with its trellis of wisteria over a reading bench and colorful flower beds would be thriving when she saw them again. 

_ He’s in room 243. -MH _

_ Bastard. -Ruth _

He supposed he deserved it. 

**_October 2000: Cambridge_ **

“I swear, they’re no help,” Mycroft said, sitting on the couch with his elbows on his knees and his hands pressed to his temples.”

“I’m sorry.” Ruth didn’t know what else to say. Violet and Siger Holmes were bereft, and it appeared that they felt the blame should go to everyone but their youngest son. Siger had set his gaze on her, asking why she hadn’t simply stopped him from shooting up in the first place as Violet looked to Mycroft, interrogating him as to how he hadn’t noticed his brother’s problem. Mycroft wanted to scream, to remind them he’d been at university and working while they’d been the ones who'd seen him for holidays and day trips and weekend visits. 

“Mummy has a tendency to ignore Sherlock has any culpability for his own actions.”

“I can tell. He’s not going to get better if she coddles him.”

“She thinks he acts out because of Redbeard. His dog died.” Mycroft knew it was a lie, and he knew that his mother had good reason to view the things that had happened at the ancestral home as reason for her son’s drug use. But Mycroft wanted to remind her he hadn’t been to therapy. They’d all been complicit in replacing the loss of his friend with the loss of a dog. They’d simply erased Eurus.

“That’s an overreaction,” she’d said with a furrowed brow. He didn’t correct her, only because he considered the fact that they’d all failed him and that there were plenty of men and women who experienced trauma and didn’t resort to self destruction.

“Indeed,” he said, leaning back. She settled beside him, books in her lap. He had paperwork to do, but had been given another day to gather himself. He was grateful, planning to make his return the next day and get work done at home. His brow lifted as he looked at the book she was reading. “ _ Leaves of Grass _ ?” 

“Yeah. For my romanticism course.”

“So you’re studying English.”

“And communication.”

“I do believe you missed your calling.”

“As?”

“Crisis counselor.” His voice was firm, head resting on the back of her sofa as his eyes closed. “You’ve read it before. Many times. The spine is creased and pages bent.”

“I have. I quite liked it, even before they assigned it for class.”

“Read to me?” Ruth noted that this was the least confident he’d appeared since they met the Friday before. This was also more relaxed than she’d expected to see him. 

“Of course. I’ve just gotten to ‘I Sing the Body Electric.’ Agreeable?”

“Most,” he murmured, and Ruth read to him until he fell asleep.


	5. Are You Finally Angry?

**_January 2015: Ruth's Shop_ **

Ruth was in the shop attached to the gallery again, and lately she’d found herself returning to painting. She hadn’t painted since transitioning from married life to separated and living in London. Painting had become tied to Mycroft. When he was home, he’d sit in her little studio to read, watching as she worked. Usually, she was spurred by something in their little family system. Worry when Sherlock wasn’t well. Happiness when Mycroft had proposed. Excitement as they built their life together. Usually, she painted their property or his office or his suit jacket draped on the chair. Now she didn’t know what to do.

Until he’d called. 

Now she was furious, painting the same scenes but darker. Like the garden as she remembered it at night when they’d gotten into a fight and she’d sat there for hours until he came to apologize at midnight. The streets of London as they looked when she was dropped off at the apartment she’d now live in without him. At times, she found herself reflecting on the state of-whatever they were. He wore his ring on his right hand, the same as her, from what Sherlock had said. He never filed for divorce, and she was afraid to. If she did, the final piece of paper tying them together would be gone. She’d be the ex-wife of Mycroft Holmes, not the estranged wife of Mycroft Holmes. To her, there was a difference. 

“Did you miss me?” she heard ring through the air, and she dropped the pallet, grateful she’d remembered a tarp today. It would take time before Sherlock or Mycroft could tell her anything. It always did. She looked at her phone, setting a timer so she could text Sherlock. Weeks before, she’d have texted Mycroft and not texted Sherlock unless she was ignored. Now, she wanted to throttle Mycroft, so she went straight to his brother. She’d been patient. It had been years of limbo with no understanding of why things existed in this flux. Two just since the younger Holmes had returned and their orbits overlapped again. But she had no more clarity, and when Mycroft had tried to tell her what she could and could not be involved in, it felt to her a confirmation that Mycroft had kept his hands in her life for the past few years. 

_ What the fuck is happening? -Ruth _

_ We do not know for certain yet, but you will be safe. He’s dead, of that much I am certain. SH _

_ So were you. -Ruth _

_ Truly, Ruth. Do not worry. We both know he’ll send a car if you’re in danger. -SH _

**_December 2000: Cambridge_ **

“Mycroft?” Ruth smiled softly, opening the door. 

“Ruth,” he greeted, smiling in the same way he had four of the the last five Friday evenings. Unlike last time, she didn’t know he was coming, so she was clad in her pajamas, hair clipped on the top of her head. Sherlock was catching up on his school work, and she hoped that when she saw him the next day, he’d be doing as well as he had been two weeks before when they’d picked him up.

“What are you doing here?”

“I did find that I missed spending the weekend here last week. You said your door was always open.” She noticed the way he shifted from foot to foot, looking decidedly and uncharacteristically vulnerable.

“I missed you too, Mycroft.” His shoulders seemed to relax again, and she stepped aside to let him in. “Excuse the mess. I wasn’t expecting company. I’ve just finished up homework for the day though. Phenomenal timing.”

“What if I take you to dinner?” he asked, head tilting as he looked at her. He’d grown attached to the pretty blonde in the flat near Cambridge. His uncle had told him caring was not an advantage, especially not in the work he was in. He thought Rudy was just a lonely old bastard. If he was to be expected to keep the secrets he did, to carry the weight he did, he deserved the small happiness of having a crush on the girl with enough patience to manage his brother. Surely that meant she could handle him too.

“Are you asking me on a date, Mycroft Holmes?” His eyes snapped to her face, determining from the quirk of her lip and openness of her stance this was approval. An invitation to define it as such that he could not pass up.

“I do suppose I am,” he nodded, hands going to the pockets of his coat. “I will be otherwise disposed due to the holiday. Mummy and father are having me come home for Christmas. Otherwise, I’d be forced to wait until the new year.”

“I’ll get dressed.” Stepping aside, she kissed his cheek as he passed, settling on the right side of the couch as he always did. He gave her a smile, picking up one of the books from her table and setting his bag on the floor. Ruth hurried to her bedroom, coming out with her hair curled in a deep green velvet dress and blocky heels. It suddenly struck him he hadn’t seen her in anything but the sweatsuits, jeans, and sweaters she’d worn to help him check in with Sherlock or watch movies or do their work in companionable silence. 

“You look beautiful,” he said softly, his voice earnest as he stood. “There’s a lovely Italian restaurant a few blocks away.”

“That sounds perfect.” He escorted her out, offering his arm to her when she’d locked the door. His hand came to rest on hers, and she smiled over at him.

“What?”

“I’m just very happy, Mycroft.”

“As am I, Ruth.”

**_April 2015: Speedy’s_ **

“Here.” When Sherlock dropped into the seat across from Ruth, extending his phone. Ruth took it, beaming as she saw the pudgy face of Rosie Watson. She was so perfect and chubby and new. 

“So this is what you’ve been busy with? Not that Moriarty nonsense? You never updated me.” She was only pretending to be angry, taking the phone and swiping through the series of pictures. It was very apparent Sherlock was relishing his new role as an uncle, one she guessed he’d accepted wouldn’t happen before now. 

“No car came to get you. I’d think that’s answer enough.”

“One’s never come before.”

“You haven’t been in danger.”

“Stop defending your brother. I’m past apathetic.”

“Are you finally angry, Ruth?”

“Shut up, Sherlock.”


	6. Can't Handle a Broken Heart

**_January 2001: Cambridge_ **

“Yes Sherlock, I do have standing plans on the weekend.”

“Who with? I’m your only friend.”

“First of all, you are not. Second of all, I’m seeing someone.”

“Only since November, Ruth. You certainly weren’t before my brother and yourself so rudely forced me to hospital. You went to America for two weeks. You’ve only seen myself, Mycroft, and your family. Now unless you’re dating my brother-- Oh god, you aren’t are you?”

“I am,” she said plainly, arms crossed as she leaned against the kitchen’s door frame. “He drives in on Fridays and leaves Sundays.”

“That is, quite frankly, disgusting.”

“Too bad, Sherlock.”

“This is why you’ve abandoned our weekend adventures.”

“You’re more interested in seeing dead bodies than staying in lately, Sherlock.”

“You used to help me figure these things out.”

“I’ve got an internship now. I don’t have time.”

“But you have time for Mycroft?”

“You’re welcome to come be a homebody any night.”

“Brother mine, we welcome your company,” Mycroft said from the doorway. He’d been given a key just after Christmas, and she found herself grateful right now.

“What are you trying to get from her, Mycroft?”

“Nothing, Sherlock. I find I rather enjoy her company.”

“You’re getting fat,” he declared, leaving with a sweep of his coat. Mycroft made a look of distaste, rolling his eyes. Ruth went to him, kissing him softly once the door had been kicked shut. 

“He’s an asshole. I made chicken.”

“Thank you, darling. That went better than expected, didn’t it?” 

“It did. I’ll call his roommate and check in this evening.”

“Perfect,” he smiled, hands resting at her waist. “I’ve missed you, Ruth. London’s never felt lonely before.”

“Well, it’s a good thing you’re stuck with me now, isn’t it?”

“Indeed.”

** _May 2002: Cambridge_ **

“You’re early,” Ruth had beamed, letting him in. In the year and a half since they’d met, he was doing well enough he was no longer in the suits that had stopped fitting when he lost weight. They were smartly tailored, and it was quickly becoming apparent dress was something he relished in. He was a mathematician in school, she’d learned, but she’d realized he just played with his clothes instead of painting. There was a personality to express. Her hands adjusted the pink tie fondly, pressing a kiss to his lips. 

“I thought I’d come a night early before parents descend upon Cambridge,” he smiled. “Mummy and father will be here tomorrow morning and then your parents in the afternoon. I’d like to take you to celebrate your graduation, just the two of us.”

“Thank you. I really appreciate it.”

“How about the Italian restaurant we went to for our first date?”

“Someone’s feeling sentimental, hm?”

“I suppose so. Now get dressed, dear. I’ll wait in my usual place.” He dropped into his seat on the couch, picking up a book as he always did. Soon enough, they were settled into a booth, where Ruth insisted he sit beside her, their backs towards the wall. He couldn’t deny her or give up the opportunity to keep his arm about her waist as they waited on the wine. It was easy to be together, as it always was. She was smart enough to keep him interested, but thankfully she was patient enough to explain to him how to behave.

_ “You told them the baby wasn’t his?” _

_ “Shouldn’t he know?” _

_ “No, Mycroft. Sometimes, it’s kinder to keep your deductions about strangers to yourself.” _

She’d walked him through the more precarious situations as well. Office politics were easy, until you were going to an event that put you into a tuxedo and near alcohol. She’d worn a gown and charmed his colleagues in the way he’d known she would. She also told him when the director of MI6 would be the most apt to speak with him, something vital due to the openings coming up. She also did something no one else had been able to do: calm him. When he was at a table with Ruth, or laying in bed, or sitting on the couch, he found that he could select which deductions, if any, he acknowledged. He could not think about Sherrinford, Eurus, Sherlock’s sobriety, or mummy and father’s blame.

The ring box in his pocket got heavy as they ate. They’d been planning to move in together in London, but marriage had started coming up. What surprised him was that he was the one bringing it up. And she seemed to agree marriage was the inevitable future they shared. When he’d passed the jewelry store, he bought the ring the previous Monday. Because he knew her, he also called her father. They’d met the previous summer, and he knew better than to propose without permission. When the waiter cleared their entrees, he waited until she looked to the side, slipping the box out and placing it open in front of her. When she saw it, her eyes went wide before she looked to him. 

“Myc…”

“Ruth, my life changed for the better when I met you. The fact we’ll be living together in London soon enough means I get to become the luckiest man in London. You are kind and intelligent and make me feel I’m home. I want to feel that way forever. Will you do me the incredible honor of marrying me?”

She’d been crying from the moment she saw the ring. Sentiment was not always his advantage, and he’d found himself wishing he could write a long romantic speech like the poems she loved so dearly. But to her, the proposal was perfect and just so Mycroft.

“Of course I will,” she finally managed, before giggling as he slid the ring onto her finger. “Of course, I’ll marry you, Mycroft Holmes.” She wrapped him in a tight hug, and he held her close, pressing a gentle kiss to her hair before she pulled back, kissing him firmly.

“I love you, Ruth. I am honored you’re willing to marry me.

“I love you too, Mycroft. It will be perfect. Our life will be perfect.” 

**_November 2010: Holmes Manor_ **

Ruth came home from teaching, and the atmosphere had shifted since she left that morning. For the last week, her husband had been behaving strangely. But when she got home, her canvas bags for groceries were gone and the basket of yarn and hooks and needles and embroidery supplies was gone from beside her chair. Mycroft was sitting in his armchair, a tumbler of scotch in his hand. What worried Ruth was how stiffly he sat and the fact that he hadn't smiled at her as she came in. They’d been together for a decade now, and in the eight years that they had shared a home, Ruth was used to a gentle smile and turn of his head for the kiss he knew was coming. Still, she went to his side, pressing a kiss to his cheek. He didn’t respond, jaw tight and back stiff. 

“Are you okay, Myc?” she asked softly, able to see him bristle. Other people weren’t allowed to call him anything but Mycroft, but she had for the entirety of their relationship. It usually caused a little relaxation when it came from her, but tonight was different.

“I’m fine,” he said with the same reserved voice she’d heard him use hundreds of times with colleagues and members of government. She’d never been on the receiving end. “Sit. We need to discuss something.”

“Okay,” she said cautiously, eyes narrowed on him as she sat. “You’re worrying me. Are you okay.”

“I do not wish to continue this arrangement.”

“What?”

It suddenly felt that there wasn’t enough air in the room. Her head started to swim as panic began to set in. Tears came to her eyes, but this wasn’t a version of her husband she felt she knew. It was so foreign not to be able to crawl into his lap, have him assure her work had just been a lot that day.

“Rudy was correct,” he said firmly, taking another draw of his drink. “Caring is not an advantage for me, Ruth. I believe it would be best if you moved into the flat. I have had my things brought to the house that were there, and yours have been transported to the flat from the house.”

“You’re divorcing me.”

“I suppose.”

“You’re calling our marriage an arrangement.”

“A car will be here for you shortly. I am sorry, Ruth.”

**_Christmas Day 2010: Sherrinford_ **

Mycroft had hated himself for many things throughout his life. He hated that he couldn’t keep Victor safe, keep Sherlock sober, make Eurus well. A month after sending Ruth to the London apartment, Mycroft Holmes hated himself for the state he saw her in when she went out. Contrary to public opinion, Mycroft Holmes cared deeply for those close to him, but he had carefully honed the ability to feign any kind of emotion. As he’d learned, he could do it successfully enough for Ruth not to press on it; she certainly knew something else was wrong, but she also knew he wouldn’t break when he put up his front.

And now he could see her in leggings and his old Oxford jumper mummy had given him. When he went to university, everyone knew better than to give him t-shirts, as they did when Sherlock left. Instead, he’d been given jumpers, polo shirts, and buttoned shirts. Those he actually wore. Three piece suits didn’t become his uniform outside of work until he neared thirty. Before that, he’d wear a jumper over a button up or a polo tucked into slacks. His Oxford cricket jumper had been lost in a trail of clothes one weekend, and when he’d seen the polaroids she took for him wearing the sweater and nothing else, he’d let her keep it. 

Now the worn sweater and a handful of other things she’d slowly commandeered were a rotating uniform and her eyes were always swollen from crying. He hadn’t seen her in this state since they nearly lost Sherlock. Mycroft supposed he was grateful that he could watch her walk to Speedy’s and sit with Sherlock, who had texted him at least a hundred times to scold Mycroft and tell him he was being moronic. Tonight, however, he was grateful to see her wearing a dress-not any dress but the one he’d gotten for her the winter before- to go to what must be the Christmas party where she’d been teaching art classes.

Once he was sure James Moriarty had been seen off the island, he could look at his sister and see that something had happened. His questions yielded no answers, and it confirmed for him that he’d done the right thing. Eurus was too intelligent, and he supposed that her imprisonment was something she’d plan a rebellion against at some point. She’d preyed on brotherly compassion when he arranged for Moriarty to be here, and he found himself resolving that it was good what he’d done to Ruth. She would heal with time, but she would heal. He had the distinct impression whatever James Moriarty had discussed with his sister could easily pull her into it.  Mycroft Holmes couldn’t handle her loss. It would ruin him. He'd rather her think him a monster now than see her dead. 

Soon enough, he'd be able to drink himself into oblivion from his armchair by the window at the home Ruth had made. 


	7. I Saw You with Her

**_July 2016: 221B_ **

“You are insane,” Ruth said, sitting in the seat across from him.

“I was high,” Sherlock countered, laying back on the couch. John Watson had gone home to his daughter, and Ruth was now being worked into the rotation to watch Sherlock. Mycroft was to have a shift, and she was grateful for the soft kiss on her temple and reassuring shoulder squeeze John gave her before promising her shifts wouldn’t be against Mycroft’s. For now, she was just desperate to see that Sherlock was alive. 

“So you’ve relapsed again?”

“Ruth, it was for a reason.” He huffed when she fixed him with a stare, her mouth straight and head tilting. Sherlock realized that the same look had come from his brother many times. He almost expected her hands to be resting on the top of an umbrella. “Mary left a video. And it’s been a month now. Still clean.”

“Mary?” Her voice was almost reverent. In the little bit of time she’d known the woman, Ruth had grown fond of her. It was good to have someone else watching Sherlock. John helped him and watched him, which was great. But Mary had taken over her role. She’d predicted what he needed, watched over his social relationships as well. 

“She said the only way to save John Watson is to make him save me.”

“I could throttle you,” she bit out. “You don’t have to get high to do that, Sherlock.”

“Right, but it did help,” he said with the mischievous smile she hated.

“Do stop, brother mine. My bride just may finish what Culverton Smith started.” Mycroft’s voice was deadly. Even as he stood in the doorframe. He could see the way that Ruth’s back stiffened and her eyes became glued to the ground. His heart was in his throat able to see the way her hair moved as her head turned and the freckles that peppered her shoulders. 

“You don’t get to call me that,” she whispered, voice thick as her eyes traced the flecks of blue in the rug. Mycroft's chest suddenly felt full of lead. Of course she wasn't pleased to see him. 

“We are still married.”

“Mycroft, this is not the time.” Her voice was harsh and full of emotion as she finally looked at him. Her eyes were already red, and tears were falling. 

“Yes, Mycroft. Have your spat in the hallway, please.” 

“Sherlock, you too. Stop it, both of you.” Leaving would mean passing close enough to Mycroft to touch him, and Ruth wouldn't be able to handle that right now. Instead of running, she scooted the chair further, fingers twisting the hem of her dress. 

“Ruth, perhaps we should speak?” She looked up at him, and Mycroft Holmes had the decency to look ashamed. They both knew he had known she’d be here. Keeping his distance was harder with each passing month. This was his first opportunity that made sense, but he should’ve considered how that would impact Ruth.

“No, Mycroft. That’s not how this works.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m not your wife who assumes you know best.”

“I do.”

As soon as he spoke, Mycroft was hit in the chest by her handbag, thankful she carried a small crossbody today. He’d seen some of her larger bags, weighed down with books and changes of shoes. He caught it against his chest, unceremoniously dropping his umbrella. It was a stupid thing to say, he supposed now. He didn’t. He didn’t know what Eurus was going to do. He didn’t learn his social graces on his own. He didn’t learn how to find Sherlock or placate his parents alone.

“You insufferable bastard-”

“Not in my flat,” Sherlock barked. Ruth stood, going to take her bag and shoulder past Mycroft. He followed her against his better judgement. Rather than driving, she’d taken an uber, and he could see her wishing the car to hurry to her.

“Ruth,” he said softly, stepping beside her. Her pulse started to pound as more tears came. She could smell his cologne, that never changed, and she wanted to wrap herself around him. At the same time, she wanted to hit him in the chest and scream. "Let me get you a car."

“Stop, Mycroft,” she said, scrubbing her eyes. "I got a ride."

“Please, listen to me.” He was on the brink of telling her the truth about everything. It had been six years and it seemed she wasn’t healing, so maybe he’d been wrong. Maybe Ruth would be better off being with him and taking the risk of what could happen.

“No,” she snapped, head turning to him. “I’m not just doing what you say, Mycroft. You ended our marriage. But apparently you don’t want a divorce. You just want to keep me in a flat in London.”

“You could divorce me. You seemed perfectly content to be kept in a flat in London.”

“I saw you with her.”

**_June 2016: Brunswick House Café_ **

“Ruth, come on,” Allison laughed, elbow hooked through her friend’s as they poured themselves into the restaurant from an uber. They were seated, Ruth giddy to be out. It didn’t happen often, but the girls’ night was much needed. 

“Thanks for this,” she smiled softly. “It’s nice to be out.”

“I’m glad to. We need to get your mind off that asshole.”

“There’s a reason for what he’s doing.”

“It’s been five and a half bloody years. If he had good reason, he ought to tell you.”

“You don’t know him, Allison. Now, where’s a waiter? I need a martini.”

Ruth wished she hadn’t finished two martinis when she saw Mycroft walk in. There was a woman with him, and she hoped it was for work. He was being Mycroft, back straight, hands to himself. But the woman? Her hand was on his arm whenever she could. Mycroft hadn’t noticed her as she tried to keep herself to the side. Allison hadn’t noticed him. She’d also been working her way through a few drinks. This time she ordered a double, not liking the way the woman scooted nearer to Mycroft. She also didn't like the fact that this wasn't one of the delicate, upscale restaurants with an obscenely expensive collection of scotch he would usually choose. He's acquiesced to going to a restaurant he would've taken her to because it made her smile. Only he didn't go for Ruth. He went for this woman.

She was trying her hardest, but Ruth was happy to see that Mycroft was giving his rehearsed smile, but he wasn’t turning her down. He’d also not noticed her. His jaw would tighten if he had. While they were paying the bill, Ruth saw the older woman kiss Mycroft, turning on her heel and marching out. Allison trailed behind her, finding Ruth in tears on the sidewalk.

“He’s in there,” she whispered through choked sobs. “With a woman.”

“I’ll kill him,” Allison growled, unsteady on her feet. 

“I just want to go home.”

**_July 2016: 221B_ **

“What woman?”

“She was older. Brunswick House Café. Last month. She kissed you.”

“You were there?”

“Yeah, I actually went out for once. Such a _lovely_ night.” Ruth's arms were crossed, her back tense. 

“Her name was Elizabeth Smallwood. It was a mistake, and you must have left before I pushed her away from me and explained that it would not work. She proceeded to slap me, much to my chagrin. It was stupid. I thought that I might move on if I went out with someone.”

Mycroft felt embarrassed and disappointed in himself. Elizabeth had offered, and it was stupid of Mycroft to pretend taking her up on it was a good idea. He spent nights lying awake and wishing that Ruth was beside him. He dreamed of Ruth. He imagined what she’d say to him in different scenarios. What he hadn't expected was for her to have seen him in person when he wasn't aware. Not only that, she saw him the only night he had been naive enough to think he could pretend Elizabeth was Ruth.

“So you do want to move on?” she whispered. 

“No. But it’s what’s best.”

“You wear your ring though.”

“So do you.”

“Can we be married again?”

“We are married.”

“Mycroft…”

“Separation is what is best. I believe that is your car.” He opened the door, Ruth crying as the car took her home. What he couldn’t tell her was the number of times lately he’d had to call Sherrinford. Something was happening, and as much as Mycroft wanted to pull her in and tell her the truth about everything, he couldn’t. That could get his Ruth killed. Eurus been turning the occasional guard. Cycling between non responsive and playing her violin for hours on end. Something was brewing, and Mycroft Holmes needed to prepare for it. 


	8. Mycroft Needs You

**_October 2016: Speedy’s_ **

“Mycroft will need you tomorrow,” Sherlock said nonchalantly, legs on the seat beside him. 

“Mycroft does not need me.” Her hands gripped the mug tighter, knuckles turning white.

“He does. I think I’ve discovered why.”

“Why what?”

“You’ve been alone the last six years.”

“Then tell me.”

“I am confirming it tonight, or I would. If I am correct, he will be at Baker Street at eight in the morning. Do come.”

Her brow furrowed as she looked at Sherlock. There were few times she was willing to allow her brother-in-law to pull his mysterious act, but she had a sneaking suspicion that Sherlock was not just bluffing. Mycroft was not who he normally was during their encounter at the hospital. He seemed remorseful, and he was telling her he didn’t want to move on but they couldn’t be together. It was confusing, and the worst case scenario was that Sherlock simply wanted them back together. As much as the younger Holmes hated to admit it, Mycroft and Ruth worked well together. Mycroft became lighter, and Ruth became more grounded. Sherlock liked them both the most that way. 

He also didn’t want to confront Mycroft about the sibling he’d been hiding without Ruth there to pick up the pieces. His brother would be mortified, but he would also have finally put the situation to the open, one that pre-dated Ruth. Surely when she knew, Mycroft would do anything he could in order to win his bride back.

**_March 2008: Holmes Manor_ **

“Mycroft needs you,” Sherlock said down the phone, in a cab on his way to his brother’s home. “He won’t tell you until he’s gotten to assess the situation.”

“What do you mean, Sherlock?” 

“Father had a heart attack.”

It seemed as though everything stopped. Siger Holmes was the glue of the family when she considered it. Violet didn’t care for Ruth, which led to tension between the elder brother, his wife, and his mother. Sherlock, was Sherlock, consistently stirring everyone up. Siger, however, was always on hand to be the voice of reason. He was a part of the coddling of Sherlock, but he was also the one who would pull Violet back when she decided to lay into Mycroft or Ruth. Unlike his wife and children, Siger was also of average intelligence, so he would sit with Ruth at the holidays when some minutia led to the other three Holmes to argue things they couldn’t follow. In fact, Ruth was quite excited when she learned Siger was the only other member of the family interested in creating physical art. His wife and son preferred music and dance, and Mycroft kept his musical pursuits close to the chest. But a Christmas had been spent with Siger, teaching him to knit. 

“Is he okay?”

“I don’t know, Ruth. Mummy said to go straight to hospital. Mycroft won’t want to worry you, so he’s on his way there. But, he’s going to need you. So I’m getting you in order to prevent him being an insufferable bastard.”

Ruth was crying, but a soft snort escaped her as she got her keys and sat on the porch, awaiting Sherlock. She’d been working on a blanket for Siger’s birthday, and she tucked it into her bag so that she would be able to work on it for him to have when he was well because the Holmes family needed Siger. She needed Siger. And, despite his insistence he didn’t need anyone, Mycroft needed Siger. She knew now that it had been Siger eight years ago who looked at his oldest son and informed him he’d be daft to listen to Rudy and not ask that girl out. Three days later, he did.

Sherlock took the keys when the black cab dropped him off, urging Ruth into the car and driving them. For once, Sherlock was the one taking care of her, and he found himself proud of how long he’d been sober since working with Lestrade. He was afraid, but Sherlock had also spent time running the numbers in his mind and he felt that statistically it was most likely his father would make it. Ruth wouldn’t think like that, he knew. He also knew that Siger was the only parent to make her feel welcomed the last eight years. 

Mycroft was silent and stiff as he sat in the waiting room. They had said Siger would be okay, but he also knew that if he called Ruth she would hear in his voice he was afraid. and he feared he could lose his composure in the hospital. Sherlock strode in, significantly late given he was closer than Mycroft when they received the calls. When he saw Ruth come in behind him, eyes wide when she saw him and hurried to his side, he was grateful.

“Sherlock told you?” he said stiffly, briefcase between his feet. 

“Yes,” she said softly.

“They think he’ll be okay.”

“He will be, Myc.” She could feel Violet’s eyes, and for once didn’t care, able to see how close to the edge Mycroft was. Her hand went to his leg, and he moved it to lace their fingers. 

“Thank you for coming,” he whispered, his shoulders relaxing just slightly as she grounded him. The doctor told them Siger would be there a few days, but fine overall, and he squeezed her hand three times. “You always know best, don’t you?”

“I do. A heart attack isn’t going to take out Siger Holmes, is it?”

**_October 2016: 221B Baker Street_ **

_ I’m running late. The cab got stuck in traffic. -Ruth _

_ Do hurry. He needs you. I was right. -SH _

Ruth was concerned, foot tapping in the backseat of the car. As soon as she was able to recognize where she was, she paid the driver, climbing out and making her way to Baker Street. Her eight o’clock arrival was now to be eight fifteen, and she relaxed when she was able to see the awning of Speedy’s coming up. Mycroft was not one to need her often. Throughout their marriage, it had been them leaning on each other equally, but on occasion, Mycroft needed her to hold his hand. She wasn’t sure she could today, depending upon what she was about to learn. 

That was when she saw the explosion. Sherlock and John were flailing as they lept from the window. Her heartbeat suddenly picked up, as did her pace, as she wondered where Mycroft was. He stumbled out with Mrs. Hudson, and Ruth couldn’t stop herself from running up to him. As furious as she had been for the last year, the idea he had nearly died in some type of explosion overrode that anger. Mrs. Hudson was passed to John Watson who was only limping slightly. Sherlock was stretching, but Ruth went to Mycroft, her hands cupping his face. Again, she was crying, but this time her eyes were running over his face, trying to ensure he was alive and unharmed.

“Ruth?” he said softly, apparently dazed. “So, I am dead.”

“Don’t be dramatic.”

He blinked, seeming to realize that Ruth was there, he had survived the blast, and her hands were on his face. His own hands went to rest over hers. She was here and touching him affectionately and with worry, something he never thought he’d be blessed enough to experience again. As they’d awaited the blast, the idea of her receiving a call regarding his death while she was angry had run through his mind, and it was an idea that infuriated him.

“Why are you here?”

“Your brother said you’d need me.”

“Everything’s come out now, so I suppose I’ll be telling you everything soon enough.”

“No. You’ll get checked out, and then you will tell me.”

“We’ve other things to attend to first.”

“You insufferable bastard. You do not send me to live in an apartment without you for six years, go on a date, get caught, never divorce me, endure an explosion, tell me that you’ve been keeping some secret, and use the dodgy face that tells me you are about to do something that may get you killed.”

Mycroft let out a shaky breath, adjusting his sullied waistcoat. His fingers found the pocket watch, taking it out and checking the face for cracks. Ruth gave a fond smile against her better judgement. 

“That’s the watch I gave you on our wedding day.”

“It is the only one I carry.”

“Go get checked, you sentimental bastard.”

“Says the woman wearing her wedding ring.”

“Says the man wearing the pocket watch  _ and _ his wedding ring.”

“I do not need to be examined.”

“God damn it, go get checked.”

“Yes, darling,” he groused. He had bruising on his ribs and ringing in his ears, but Mycroft was deemed safe. Mrs. Hudson was appraising him, clearly not having expected to have him be the one to save her. A sleek, black car parked, and Mycroft opened the back door.

“Sherlock and John will be dropped off by Lestrade. They require more attention and a stop for clothing. They shan't be allowed in 221B until it is cleared.”

She gave a terse nod, climbing into the car. Her husband’s form made her nerves fray. There was a bevy of emotions running through her and no time to process them as they came. Seeing Mycroft, seeing him hurt, made her cycle between wanting to slap him and kiss him and scream at him and hold him. He was disheveled and dirty, certainly not in the state he preferred. He still held himself elegantly, however, and she smiled internally to see his fingers twist the ring on his right hand.

“Tell me, Myc.” Her voice was soft, but it was very apparent it was an order, but the emotion in her voice made him question what she needed to hear.

“I will once we’ve returned home and I’ve changed.”

“Not that.”

“Then what?”

“How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine, Ruth.”

“You’re full of shit,” she said plainly. She’d been watching him since they got in the car. She’d seen him shocked before when they’d been in a car accident a decade before. This wasn’t that. He was giving the same distant stare, but there was a barely perceptible shaking of his leg that she’d only seen a couple of times when he was afraid. His knuckles were white as he gripped the umbrella handle, the one she knew was attached to a gun attached to a sword sheathed in an umbrella.

“I’m afraid,” he admitted after a long silence. The quiet had lasted long enough that she could see the wisteria of the garden in the distance. 

“So whatever it has happened is that bad?”

“I’m afraid it is. When it ends, I fear I will not hear from Sherlock again.” That made Ruth pause. No matter how they fought, both brothers always knew they’d see each other again. Hearing from Sherlock was a given and he hadn’t said he feared Sherlock’s death. Mycroft was much too precise to omit that. 

“Do you need help getting cleaned up?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure?” she asked as she waited by the car. He stood before her and she could see the difference in his eyes.

“Ruth, after all I’ve done to you, I do not expect you to assist me in cleaning myself.”

“Myc, I know you can bathe. I just also know you may not want to be alone right now.”

“You are correct,” he admitted softly. 

“I’ll sit with you while you’re in the shower.”

“I do not deserve your kindness.”

“You’re right.”


	9. Anything You Say

**_August 2001: Mycroft’s London Apartment_ **

“Ruth, you did not need to come,” he chided from his desk. She could see the papers spread out before him. She could also see the way sweat made his hair stick to his forehead and all the color had left his face. 

“Myc, I knew you wouldn’t be taking care of yourself.”

“I’m fine. It’s only a minor cold.”

“You sound terrible. Have you eaten?”

“No.” She noted his tone, almost like a child being scolded by his mother. He hadn’t taken care of himself because he’d decided none of his work could wait for the end of the weekend. It could, of course. She knew what he was working on could wait, but he was so eager for recognition he wouldn’t let it be left alone.

“Well, good thing I stopped at the grocery so I can make you soup,” she said softly, kissing his temple. Carefully, she took the mouse, saving any work before pressing the power button on the tower.

“Ruth,” he huffed, and she wanted to laugh at the fact he truly sounded scandalized. “I’m working.”

“Mycroft,” she mimicked, wrapping her arms around him from behind. “You’re running a fever.” Carefully, she urged him to stand, pulling him towards his room. Leaving him for a moment, she went to his dresser before holding out his pajamas. 

“You’ll be sick too soon enough,” he warned her. 

“Mycroft, one of us gets sick, the other will. Now, pajamas on, and you get in bed. I brought electrolytes and I’m starting a pot of soup.”

“Yes, dear,” he muttered. In his twenty-seven years, his mother had hardly been able to make him do a damn thing when he was sick. He didn’t like to be seen as needing help. With Ruth, there was little option, and Mycroft followed instructions obediently, waiting in bed for her next direction. 

“Take these,” she said softly, voice gentler as she sat beside him on the bed and held out two pills. “And then finish this water while the soup cooks. Hopefully it’ll help your fever break.”

“Thank you, Ruth. I do not know what I’d do without you.”

“Suffer,” she teased, making her way back to his kitchen.

**_October 2016: Holmes Manor_ **

“You missed a spot,” Ruth called to Mycroft in the shower. She’d remodeled this bathroom, and it seemed odd to see the counter around her sink still bare. The only benefit was that she could now sit on it. 

“I most likely will,” he said, annoyance apparent. “The explosion caused my muscles to tighten and they’ve not relaxed yet. As long as most of the grime is gone, I will be content.”

“It’s your whole back. It’ll ruin your shirt.”

“C’est la vie,” he said with feigned nonchalance, and Ruth sighed, pushing herself off the counter and stepping to the open side of the shower. 

“Hand me the rag, Mycroft. I don’t want to hear you whine about soot.”

“That’s inappropriate.”

“We lived as a couple for ten years. I think washing your back is the least I’ve done.” She saw the tips of his ears turn red as he handed the washcloth to her and turned to face away. Gently, she washed away the grime, and his muscles spasmed from the stress the explosion had caused. He’d be sore when they relaxed, but it seemed he wouldn’t be giving them time.

“Thank you,” he said softly, the last of the grime from Baker Street going down the drain. She noticed absently he must not have shaved that morning, because soon enough he was at the sink beside her, wrapped in a robe and lathering his face. He didn’t take well to interruptions in his routine, and while he could go another day before anyone would notice, he would know. 

She found herself examining him for the first time since he’d sent her away. The restaurant, 221B, and the explosion all left her too emotionally confused. Right now, it felt like they were still happily married and everything between was a bad dream. They’d spent many mornings like this, savoring a little time together before their days began. Now, she was trying to piece together what may be coming. They’d both aged, but she was fond of the way lines had appeared on his skin. She always felt like Mycroft had been born a middle aged man, and seeing his appearance catch up suited him.

He wanted to point out that she was staring, but he knew she may leave soon enough. She’d find out that he’d lied to the family. That would be enough. Then there was the fact he’d lied to her. He hated to consider the six years of pain he’d caused her to keep Eurus secret, but it was needed. Then again, maybe if he’d told her instead of gifting Eurus whatever she requested because of his deeply rooted guilt they wouldn’t be in this mess. Her hair was shorter now, resting just above her shoulders when she curled it. He’d always told her how much he liked her hair long, but he really just liked the way the light hit it. He watched her in the mirror as he dressed, motioning for her to follow him to his study.

“Sit.” Less gracefully than usual, he went to the sideboard, pouring them each a drink. He dared not smoke in front of her. Ever since they met, she’d wanted him to quit, and he even had for a while. It wasn’t until that Christmas he started again as he sat alone at the window. Setting the tumbler beside her, he went to the other side of his desk.

“No. Sit in the seat beside me. You’re speaking to me as your estranged wife, not the government.” He obliged, one long leg crossing over the other as he fiddled with his waist coat.

“As you wish,” he said with a feigned smile. She knew this was not going to be easy for him, but she wasn’t going to sacrifice her own needs from the discussion. 

“What’s happening, Myc?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know where to begin.”

“How about by answering this question for me?” He lifted a brow in anticipation as she sipped her drink. “Is whatever this is connected to the last six years?”

“It is the motivator, yes.”

“By extension, this is related to Uncle Rudy?”

“Yes.”

“So whatever this is, you’ve kept from me for sixteen years?”

“With only the best intention.” He saw her shaky breath as she finished the drink, going to pour a second. 

“Tell me.”

“Sherlock and I have a sister.”

“What?” He could see the way her brow furrowed as she leaned against his sideboard. Ruth’s head spun as she tried to process there was another Holmes in the world, and based on her experience, this would be a Holmes no one spoke of.

“Eurus. She makes Sherlock and myself seem so average, Ruth. But there’s so much more. Have you heard Sherlock speak of Redbeard?”

“Yeah. You guys’s dog that died.”

“Redbeard wasn’t a dog, Ruth. I have not told him that yet. He was a boy. Sherlock’s best friend. And Eurus killed him.”

“So she’s older?”

“No. She is a year younger than my brother. Described as an era defining genius.” She watched him tilt the glass in his hand to watch the liquid instead of her. “But she doesn’t feel. Sherlock and I, you’re one of the few that knows we do feel. Eurus once cut herself. She was bleeding so badly, but she didn’t seem phased. She told mummy that she wanted to see how the muscles worked. And then when Sherlock spent more time with Victor than her, he disappeared. When he did, she’d sing this song we couldn’t make sense of-a clue, for Sherlock.”

“Jesus, Mycroft. So no one talks about her? To protect Sherlock?”

“Not quite,” he said, his voice tight. “She burned down Musgrave. That’s why we stopped going. Rudy had her taken away to another facility. She burned it down too. At the time, Rudy still held clearance enough to have her put away in Sherrinford. Few know it exists. Myself and perhaps a dozen others in the government. Sherlock was six when Trevor was killed and seven after the first fire. He was eight when the second fire occurred and Rudy said I needed to be ready to take over protecting the family. I helped him tell mummy and father that she had died. I’ve been monitoring her alone since I was twenty-five.”

“So you were fourteen when Rudy roped you into this?”

“I agreed willingly.”

“You were most likely traumatized with no therapy and convinced this was a good idea before you were even an adult.”

“I suppose so,” he said with his familiar tight line smile of resignation. “That was why he wanted me to know caring is not an option. What Eurus may do. What governments may do. What anyone who needs to put pressure on the government may do. And then you ruined that.”

“So why did you leave?”

“I made a very dangerous decision.”

“Stop being mysterious.”

“She wanted to meet James Moriarty for five minutes of unsupervised conversation.”

“Mycroft--”

“I know.”

“Is that the video?”

“And the explosion, I believe. I’ve known something was coming since they met. I’m sorry, Ruth. I truly am. I realized my mistake, and I couldn't risk she’d harm you.”

“But you didn’t give me a say.”

“I couldn’t.”

“You went out with another woman.”

“I have no good excuse. I truly do not. I thought I could distract myself.”

“It’s just all very confusing.”

“I know, darling.”

“No. You don’t, Myc. You knew everything you just told me. I have spent six years trying to figure out what I did wrong. And it turns out I could’ve been in danger, you kept a massive secret from me for years, and you didn’t think I deserved to know why you were sending me away and ignoring me.”

She was furious, he could tell. He wanted her sympathy, but Mycroft had to be realistic and acknowledge the fact he had hurt her. Some part of him assumed she knew he loved her as much as he did and wouldn't live apart from her if it weren’t necessary. But she didn’t, and he was unsure how he felt about that. Then again, why should she? He’d been cruel.

“I will understand if you want to file for divorce.”

“I don’t know what I want,” she said, hands scrubbing over her face. She dropped into her seat again, unable to look at him. “I understand not telling your family. I understand why Rudy did what he did. I do not understand not telling me, Myc. And treating me like you have. But you were also stuck. I don’t know. You need to deal with whatever this is. And we can begin to spend time together again. But I’m not moving back here until I feel like I can trust you. Because I did. And then look at the last six years.”

“I will do everything I can.”

“I don’t want to talk about it any more today, Mycroft. Sherlock and John will be here soon. You need to be in the headspace for it.”

“Yes, dear.”

“I’m taking a bath. I need to think.”

“I’ll call you a car.”

“No, here. I’m listening when you talk to Sherlock and John. If you leave me out of one more loop when it comes to this, I will leave and not come back. You are to be transparent with me from now on.”

“Anything you say.”


	10. I Do Not Deserve You

**_March 2012: Ruth’s Gallery Opening_ **

“I’m proud of you,” Gregory Lestrade smiled, hand resting on her shoulder. “Sherlock would be too.”

“Thanks, Greg,” she said softly, holding her wine glass close. Greg’s hand fell back to his side, his daughter elbow deep in the paints. Ruth had made a little gallery, wanting to teach hands-on courses. She’d been in galleries a lot growing up, but there was rarely a space for children. This one had a room full of the more colorful abstract paintings, hung higher on the wall. Tables were set up for children’s art classes, and there was a set up in the back for adult’s art classes. She was creating a system for parents to bring their children in to paint or sculpt, and it seemed it was an even better idea as she watched the kids settling in. Brianna was settled on the floor with several of the other children of her friends. Greg was one of her last ties to Sherlock. She was worried how Mycroft was coping, but he’d ignored her calls and when she tried to stop by the house, no one came to the door.

“Bri is going to be begging to come all the time. And I’m betting this’ll be where she wants her birthday party.”

“Ooooh, we’ll test drive birthdays with Bri.”

“She’ll gladly christen it.”

“How’s she doing?”

“I think the divorce is making more sense to her now. Franny and I are working together as much as we can.”

“That’s good. She’ll be fine. She’s lucky you two get along.” Greg didn’t miss the way she twisted the delicate yellow gold and diamond band around her right ring finger. Divorce hadn’t been hard for Greg; he and Franny had fallen out of love mutually. It was the adjustment to living alone and not having his daughter in his house every day. Ruth had never fallen out of love with Mycroft, everyone knew. He didn’t hear from Mycroft any more, but the little bit he saw of him before Sherlock died made Greg think that whatever happened had larger implications. 

Those who met the elder Holmes after he kicked Ruth out so unceremoniously thought he never smiled and was always so stoic. And he was basically the same before. What no one else had seen was the version of Mycroft that Greg saw when Sherlock dragged the detective to his older brother’s home for Christmas. It had quickly become apparent the holiday party was Ruth’s idea. Only Sherlock, Molly, and a handful of Ruth’s friends were there. Ten would be a generous estimate. Mycroft had been the same stoic man he saw now and had feigned disinterest in the events. Greg had seen the way he watched Ruth though, and it was apparent how smitten he was. What kept Greg from being able to see the elder Holmes as the iceman however was the fond smile on his face when his drunk wife climbed into his lap after everyone but Sherlock and Greg had left, her knees to her chest and arms about his neck.

“Have you heard from him?”

“No. It was stupid to send an invitation.”

**_October 2016: St. Bart’s_ **

“I don’t see why they won’t let me return home,” Mycroft groused, his wife in the furthest corner, her arms crossed over her chest.

“You have been drugged, involved in an explosion, and experienced trauma, both emotional and physical. Stop complaining.”

“I could lay in my own bed easily.”

“They need to see if you have a concussion. Stop it. You’re acting like your brother.” Mycroft fixed her with an unamused stare, lips pursed. “What happened today, Myc?”

“I do not wish to speak of it right now.”

“You’ll tell me though?”

“Yes.”

“Are you going to be okay?”

“I do not know, Ruth. She tortured us, I saw people killed, and she wanted Sherlock to kill John Watson or myself. I do not know how I will handle this. Mummy and father will be here for me to tell this weekend. I am afraid, Ruth.”

“What can I do?”

“Stay in the guest room. Please.”

“Why?” 

“You know why.”

“Say it.”

“I’m afraid, Ruth. I know you’ll be safe, but it was terrifying. I’d be dead if she had her way. I almost died.”

“I thought John was in the well?”

“I wasn’t going to let John Watson die when the entire ordeal was my fault. Sherlock was going to shoot me if she had her way.”

Silence filled the room as Ruth processed what he had said. His voice was thick with emotion as he stared at the ceiling. Seeing him like this, she knew that she needed to put aside what happened between them for now. Quietly, she moved to the seat beside his bed and took his hand.

“I’ll stay at the house,” she said softly, lacing their fingers. “I’m sorry all of this happened. I’m hurt and angry, but I want us to work on our marriage, okay? But we won’t worry about that right now. I’ll be here for you through it.”

“Thank you.” He looked over at her, and Ruth leaned forward to kiss his temple. 

“I get to fight Elizabeth Smallwood though, okay?”

“Whatever you need, darling.” 

**_October 2016: Holmes Manor_ **

Ruth sat up in bed when she heard the Mycroft shouting. It was one loud sound, but she knew it meant he’d woken up. She’d refused to sleep in their room, but she now realized he may need her to stay in the room. Slipping through the doorway, she went to his side of the bed first, hand resting on his leg as he caught his breath. Mycroft had been stressed before, and she’d seen him afraid. She had not, however, seen him haunted before.

“I keep replaying the deaths,” he said softly, his breathing leveling out.

“Do you want me to sleep here?”

“Whatever makes you most comfortable, Ruth.”

She went to her side of the bed now, sliding underneath the blankets. Mycroft blinked as he looked at her. The nightmare had woken him, and it was nice to have Ruth there to ground him. He had wanted to beg her to lay with him, but he didn’t deserve her presence, much less her closeness. When her hand tugged the back of his pajama shirt, he laid down, and to his surprise, she pulled him to her. Reverently, Mycroft wrapped his arm around her, burying his face into the crook of her neck. He felt relief flood his body, able to relax in a way he hadn’t in years. Despite all of the ways he’d failed her and the road that was ahead of them, Ruth was home. She had been since he was twenty-six, and again, Mycroft internally chastised himself for sending her away. 

“It’ll be okay, Myc. We’ll get you through this, okay?”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you all of this.”

“I understand the why,” she whispered, rubbing soothing circles on his back. “I don’t like it, but I’m going to move past it, okay? I’m going to have some hurt we gotta work through and leaving and going out with that woman aren’t forgiven yet. But I love you, Mycroft. You’re my husband.”

“You have the patience of a saint, and I do not deserve you.”

“I know that you’re punishing yourself more than I ever could. Let me see your hands.” She pushed herself up to sit, kissing his fingers before she slid his ring off his right hand. “Mycroft Holmes, I’m promising right now that I will work through whatever I need to with you. The last six years were painful, but the ten before were worth it and the next fifty will be too.” She slid the ring onto his left ring finger again, smiling softly. He took her hands, pulling her band off silently and sitting up so he could hold her gaze.

“Ruth, I swear to you that I’ve been changed by the last few years. From the explosion to today, I’ve realized that I cannot risk being another day without you. I could’ve wasted six years without you only to die yesterday. I will never keep these things from you again. And I will work to ensure I include you in any decision I feel is safest for you.” 

He slid the delicate band onto her other hand, and Ruth wrapped around him. Holding her close, his head came to rest on her chest. Sleep came fitfully, and Ruth spent much of the night doing what she could to relax him. Fingers smoothed his hair, her hand rubbed his back, she hummed songs softly. When light began to shine through the windows, she pressed a soft kiss to his forehead before slipping from the bed. She knew he’d follow after her if he woke before she came back, but she wanted to bring him breakfast upstairs. He needed to rest; she could see he hadn’t slept well in months, maybe even years.

It was good to be back in their kitchen, and everything was where it was when she left. The fridge, however, was empty, as was the pantry. There was a stack of take out and delivery menus, and Ruth sighed, pulling out her phone and ordering breakfast delivered. He did have tea and coffee. She couldn’t help but smile softly, taking them both out. He didn’t drink coffee, and the bag was unopened. It was the same she always drank and she made a cup of coffee as she brewed his tea. She went back upstairs to find him in the landing, on his way to the kitchen.

“Let’s go to the dining room.”

“Breakfast in our room.”

“We have to order something, Ruth.”

“Already ordered. It’ll be here in a half hour,” she smiled, holding out his tea. He smiled fondly, pausing before he leaned to press a chaste kiss to her lips. Ruth grinned up at him, happy to settle back into some semblance of routine. “Upstairs, mister.”

“Yes dear,” he said, rolling his eyes, but she didn’t miss the soft smile tugging his lips. She followed him, settling in one of the two oversized armchairs she’d insisted they put in the alcove that held a window in their bedroom. She placed her mug on the table in between them, tucking her legs underneath her. He sat in his own armchair, having dressed already.

“Why do you always wear a suit at home?”

“I never know when I’ll be called away.”

“You don’t wear country wear to the city. You’ll change if they call you.”

“I suppose I do,” he chuckled. “Comfort?”

“This is comfort,” she hummed, motioning to her leggings and worn t-shirt.

“For you. I’m sure you’ll change my ways again soon enough.”

“It took five years for you to stay in pajamas on Saturday mornings.”

“I didn’t like being home without you,” he admitted, tilting his head. 

“I think it would be good if I did move home.”

“You don’t have to until you’re ready, darling.”

“I know. But, I think it would be better for us. I’ll sleep in the guest room if I have to, but I’m not wasting time in the city. We need to be able to adjust to each other again and deal with issues as they come up.”

“I’d be incredibly happy for you to come home.”

“Will you come with me to gather my things?”

“We can have someone move your things back.”

“I’d like to at least get my clothes and supplies back here today. That’s really all I have there.”

“We can do that. Mummy and father do not arrive until tomorrow, and they won’t want to stay here.”

“It’ll work out. Siger will come around first and mummy will once she sees her.”

“I am not taking them to her.”

“You have to, Myc. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not safe.”

“They need to see that you were being kind. The new staff and security will be there.”

“You are correct,” he said, leaning his head to his hand. 

“I’ll go with you,” she said softly, shifting to put her hand on his knee. “We’ll get through this. I swear to you.” He nodded tensely, and Ruth heard the doorbell. She kissed the top of his head, going to get their food and returning. 

“Thank you,” he said softly, reaching to squeeze her hand gently.

“You’re welcome, honey. Eat. We’ll get me home today.”

He was quiet, watching Ruth eat. It had been so long since he’d been able to spend time with her like this. He’d kept watch over her, sure, but he hadn’t been able to see the way her eyes crinkled when she smiled. There was also a smile reserved for him that made a certain masculine pride swell in his chest. He’d seen her up close once, but he couldn’t spend long there and couldn’t go too near.

“I went to the opening,” he admitted, voice soft. “I wore a disguise because I did not wish to ruin it for you.”

“What?”

“MI6 taught me a lot.” She could see the tips of his ears go pink.

“You were the weird northern guy, weren’t you? Stayed by the door and then bolted.”

“Correct,” he nodded.

“Mycroft,” she said softly, smiling warmly. “That does still mean a lot.”

“I am so incredibly proud of you, Ruth.”

“Thank you, darling.”

“Is it terrible I was jealous of Lestrade?”

“Only because nothing was happening there. We talked about you most of the night.”

“I’m honored.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be out of town until early December, and won't have my laptop to write. Please leave some feedback and I'l be back to posting in a week or two.
> 
> Thank you guys for all the feedback so far!

**_October 2016: Mycroft’s Diogenes Office_ **

Ruth sat across from Mycroft, both of their nerves high. Sherlock would be there soon with mummy and father. It wouldn’t go well, they both knew. Siger would at least understand why he did what he did. He’d be furious and hurt, but he would come around. Siger Holmes had always known Ruth and Mycroft were not actually responsible for the Holmes children. His wife would claim that Sherlock was the grown up, but it was because she felt Mycroft had failed his responsibilities as the elder child. When he married Sherlock’s friend, she’d assumed the pair would keep Sherlock off drugs. Siger, however, recognized that Ruth and Mycroft were responsible for no one’s well being but their own. Sherlock couldn’t be contained, and Mycroft did his best to monitor the situation. What his wife seemed to refuse to recognize was the fact Mycroft was the reason their younger son was alive, and Ruth was the reason their elder son was ever happy.

She went to Mycroft’s side, pulling him to stand and wrapping her arms around him. Despite how hard her husband tried to pretend he didn’t need anything, she knew he needed to be held sometimes. He relaxed into her slightly, just holding himself against her with a soft hum. Her hand rubbed his back as they waited. She was going to step to the back and stay beside Sherlock. When they heard the trio in the hall, she kissed him sweetly. 

“It’ll be uncomfortable and terrible, and then we’ll go to lunch,” she said softly, squeezing his hand.

“Or home,” he said plainly.

“Or home,” she nodded, going to the other side of the desk and standing to the side. Mummy and father came in, Siger stepping to hug her. 

“It’s good to see you again, Ruth,” he said softly, patting her back. “I do wish it were under different circumstances.”

“I do too,” she said softly. “But I’m so glad to see you.”

“Ruth,” mummy said with a curt nod. She had expected it. Violet probably expected her to be in on it or to have been able to figure it out and change things. 

“Ruth,” Sherlock said, much more warmly than his mother. He must have known it was a hard day, because he gave her a hug, and they both leaned against the door. She watched Mycroft, his gaze on his desk as he explained what had happened.

“She remains our daughter,” Siger had emphasized. Sherlock shifted beside her.

“He did his best.”

“Then he’s very limited.” 

She saw the shift of his head and mouth, knowing that hit her husband in a way he’d need to work through later. When mummy called Sherlock the grownup, both Ruth and Mycroft’s brows lifted. 

“What should we do?” Violet asked, and Sherlock turned his head to look at Ruth. Mummy huffed ,and Ruth smoothed her skirt.

“On Monday, we will all go to Sherrinford,” she said softly. She’d touched base with Sherlock and Mycroft the night before, and they’d all agreed this was the right plan, but of course neither man was willing to say it.

“I do not believe I asked you,” mummy said. “Eurus is their sibling.”

“We discussed it previously. I did not think you should see her, but Ruth reminded me you weren’t there, so you most likely need to see what she’s become.”

“The four of us will go Monday then.”

“Ruth will be accompanying us," Sherlock said flatly.

“This is family,” she said, and Sherlock was struck by how similar his mother could be to Mycroft. 

“That’s why she goes, Mother.”

“Violet, I’m going for Mycroft. And I would like to remind you that he didn’t begin all of this. Your brother did. Rudy took a fourteen year old boy and taught him these secrets had to be kept. Was it the right choice to keep it from us? No. But you know what? Your son busts his ass to make sure you and Siger and Sherlock and I are all safe and shielded from as much pain as possible. He has bore the brunt of this since he was a teenager, and you do not have to agree, but he is most certainly not limited.”

“Yet you two have not kept Sherlock out of trouble.”

“Mother,” Sherlock said seriously. “Ruth and Mycroft are the reason I am alive, and your son was willing to sacrifice himself to keep me from losing my friend. Stop it, or you will strain the relationship between you and I even further.” 

**_May 2002: Holmes residence_ **

“Why doesn’t she like me?” Ruth asked as she laid beside Mycroft. 

“She doesn’t dislike you.”

“Yes she does. She literally asked why you’d marry me.”

“Mummy has an illusion that you and I should be able to control Sherlock.”

“Oh lord,” she chuckled, propping herself up on her elbow as she watched him. “So she’ll never like me then?”

“Not unless Sherlock becomes more manageable. And even then, it’ll always be our fault her little pirate went down a dark road. I shouldn’t have left him.”

“You just went to college?”

“I know.”

“Promise when we have kids we won’t expect them to raise each other.”

“You want to have children with me?”

“Of course,” she smiled softly, hand on his chest. “If it happens for us. I’ll be okay if it doesn’t.”

“I am not sure. If I do, with you is the only way I’d have children.”

“We don’t have to decide today. I just think about the possibility. I’m not terribly attached either way.”

“I’m just afraid to have children.” He didn’t want to tall her the true why. Eurus was not something to delve into while his fiancee was in his childhood bed. 

**_October 2016: Holmes Manor_ **

“That went much better than expected,” she said softly.

“You don’t seem to care anymore if she likes you.”

“All that matters to me is you being treated how you deserve.”

“I do not deserve to be treated well, Ruth.”

“Mycroft, you did what you truly believed was right. We can disagree, fight, and be angry, and still respect you. You saw that your father was primarily angry he hasn’t seen her. I think he gets it. So does Sherlock.”

“It’s my fault she’s retreating into herself.”

“Myc, all you can control is what you do from now on.”

“I’m afraid to be back in that room.” She pulled him close, hands resting on his shoulders. 

“Sweetheart, you’ll be safe. I truly think it will be safe. I’ll be there for you.”

“I have built up vacation days, and they are making me take them. I think it’s because they are displeased so they’ve chosen to hold me to some useless policy.”

“You haven’t taken vacation since we haven’t been together, have you?”

“No, and they’ve never held me to the requirement. I’ve too much to do.”

“Well, how long have you built up?”

“Weeks. I have to take at least one.”

“Then, we’re going on a vacation. I think that’s a very good way for us to get to heal.”

“You could be right. Domestic or international?”

“You could take two weeks. We could do both.”

“Where would we go?”

“Maybe the cottage we used to rent? And then anywhere you feel.”

“That could be quite nice,” he smiled fondly. “See Eurus and then spend time with only you. How about Florence?”

“Reliving our honeymoon? You’re being quite romantic. Careful, someone may think you’re sentimental.”

“I don’t care what anyone thinks any more.”

“You don’t?”

“I’d let you kiss me in front of the prime minister. I do not care.” 

She let out a laugh, remembering their first event since they’d gotten married. The hardest thing for Ruth to adjust to had always been Mycroft’s aversion to public displays of affection. On dates, it was one thing. He’d let her hang all over him. Work events however, he would place a hand on her back or hold her in a careful frame to dance. She’d have a glass of champagne and want to kiss him, but he would want to remain stoic and unromantic in front of his colleagues.

“This all really affected you, huh?”

“Between not kissing you for six years and nearly dying before I was able to again, I am not wasting any more time fearing my colleagues think me soft.”

“We’ll go to the country and then to Florence and then I’ll kiss you next time we have to go to a fancy party.”

“That sounds agreeable.”

“If Elizabeth Smallwood is at that fancy party, I’ll fully make out with you.”

“Whatever makes you happy, darling. I believe she’s having a party I didn’t plan to attend next week.”

“You haven’t been to any of those since I left, have you?”

“No. It’s no fun without you.”

“Who else are you going to explain the intricacies of everyone’s affairs to?”

“I can’t very well tell them their wives are sleeping with interns and higher ups and field operatives.”

“I had to teach you that.”

“It served me well.”

“How are you feeling? And no bullshit.”

“Like a failure,” he said, voice barely a whisper.

“Take a bath and go to bed?”

“Long bath.”

“Alone or together?”

“You wouldn’t mind together?”

“I won’t promise more than a bath.”

“I wouldn’t expect more”

“C'mon, then. Let’s run a bath.”


	12. We've Been Through Worse

**_June 2002: London_ **

“Myc?” Ruth called, hanging her bag by the door. She went through the apartment, having vaguely heard his voice from the bathroom. She sat on the floor beside the tub, her fiance setting his book beside her. It had been a long day, she knew. A field agent had blown it, and Mycroft had been in his ear the entire time. He got frustrated when people didn't listen. Again, Mycroft was taking it as a sign of personal failure that someone else had messed up. He’d found them an apartment with a bath tub, the only amenity he was truly concerned with. When he had a truly bad day, he would take a bath, emptying the tub enough to add more hot water when needed. 

He looked rather dejected, and she realized this was the first time he’d used the tub since she’d moved in. Normally, he’d call her in the evening, having already collected himself. Today, she knew it would be harder. People had died, and he’d heard it. It was work though, and sometimes she found herself how healthy the ease of separation was for Mycroft. Today, she realized it was another facade; he was torn up. He simply reached for her hand and she kissed his fingers softly. 

“Join me?” he asked softly. There was nothing lavacious about his offer, she knew. Despite his best efforts, she’d realized quickly that touch was what grounded him. He wouldn’t accept it in public beyond a hand on his back or arm and maybe a kiss to a cheek. At home, he wanted to hold her close or have her hold him. He needed to be reminded she was real and tangible and not going anywhere. Carefully, she slipped off her clothes and settled against his chest in the water. Her head rested back against his shoulder, and he nuzzled into the top of her head.

“Do you want to talk about it more?” He shook his head, arms around her waist. 

“I just need you to be here.”

“I’ll always be here.”

**_October 2016: Holmes Manor_ **

Their bath was bigger now than it had been in that first apartment. Ruth settled against Mycroft’s chest, and the feeling of his skin against her back was foreign and familiar all at once. It was strange to finally be here again, but her head rested back against his shoulder with ease. Mycroft’s hands clasped over her stomach and he closed his eyes as her head rested against hers. 

“Better?” she asked softly, hands on his forearms.

“Much,” he whispered. “Thank you, Ruth.”

“We’ll curl in bed after, okay? Order some dinner. Relax this weekend.”

“I have to prepare-”

“Anthea booked everything.”

“Thank you.” Mycroft Had a tendency not to give Anthea tasks that he felt he should do as punishment. He felt guilty, so he felt he should spend the afternoon scheduling. Ruth had long ago taken Anthea’s number, and his assistant had kept in touch when they were apart, mostly because she insisted he’d been insufferable. She thought people would say the same about her if she’d been in his shoes. She was determined not to dwell on what had happened and trust him moving forward. He felt guilty enough, and she didn’t feel the need to keep reminding him.

“It’s my job to make sure you take care of yourself,” she said softly, bringing his hand to her lips and kissing his knuckles. 

“You know what I will plan?” He was relaxing ever so slightly.

“What?”

“I’ll book the cabin and then Florence. Our usual cabin and then a second trip to our honeymoon locale.”

“That sounds incredible. I can allow you to plan that.”

“I’m sure it takes great sacrifice.”

“A lot. I get nothing out of it.”

“I get two weeks with my wife without any of the blithering idiots I deal with daily, so it’s top priority for me.”

“You coulda just said two weeks with my wife.”

“That part was a given, darling.”

“Such a romantic, Myc.”

“I can be.”

“You certainly can.”

They stayed that way until the water was cold, and Ruth kissed his cheek, getting them each a towel and holding one out to him as the bath drained. Mycroft accepted it gladly. Soon enough, Ruth was downstairs to make them each a cup of tea. Chamomile was something his mother had made him when he was younger, and she realized that it helped him relax when he wouldn’t allow himself. Her husband was nothing if not a masochist, always taking as much responsibility as he could get. She imagined it to be exhausting. But, in the decade before the separation, she’d gotten relaxing Mycroft down to a science. It was harder tonight, but they’d had worse.

**_2004: St. Bart’s_ **

“Myc, what’s happening?” Ruth had asked, hurrying to her husband’s side. The past two years they’d watched Sherlock deteriorate. This time, however, she’d simply gotten the text  _ St. Bart’s Intensive Care. Now.  _ She’d hurried there, and when she found Mycroft pale, sitting stiffly in the corner with his hair mussed, she knew things were serious.

“Sepsis,” he bit out, knuckles white around the handle of his umbrella. “He had overdosed, but something was different. His list shouldn’t have caused an overdose. I brought him in, and he’s septic. The drugs simply worsened it.”

“Is he okay?”

“They don’t know.”

The words hung heavy in the air as Ruth wrapped him in a gentle hug. Usually, it was simpler; he’d be treated for the overdose and stay a night or two in the house away from the city. Sometimes he’d even spend a week. Then he’d go back to his apartment and quickly return to his habits. This was the first time the other half of the couple had arrived at the hospital and there was a possibility of losing Sherlock still. 

“Mummy and father will be here as soon as they can.”

“Good,” she whispered, hand still on his arm as they sat. She was determined not to cry. Her husband needed little from her, and while he’d not be harmed if she cried, he’d move his energy to her when it was his brother in a hospital bed.

“They think his kidneys will be okay, but they are doing a round of dialysis. His body was just beginning to shut down. He should be dead.”

“Sherlock is too stubborn to die.” He made a noise that walked a fine line between disapproval and a laugh, and she squeezed his fingers.

“How could I not notice  _ sepsis _ , Ruth?”

“You take his temperature and heart rate each visit?”

“I should, apparently.” She would think it were a joke if it weren’t for the guilt thick in his voice as his head rested in his hands. She rubbed soothing circles on his back, shaking her head.

“Mycroft, please, remember what you always tell me.”

“That’s different.”

“We can’t control Sherlock.”

“I’m his brother.”

“It does not change the facts. We try, but this isn’t something we could expect.”

Once midnight neared and Mummy and father had arrived, Ruth convinced all three Holmes that a night of sleep would ensure they were better prepared to see Sherlock in the morning when his dialysis was over and he’d received medications. She knew Mycroft would not sleep, allowing guilt to eat at him instead, but his parents would. When they had, she’d convinced him to shower, sitting on the counter. She didn’t want to leave him alone, even if it meant just sitting quietly as Mycroft stood under water as hot as he could stand it. What she did not expect was to hear a soft gasp as he covered his mouth. It suddenly connect that Mycroft had been standing under the water crying, so she slipped in with him, arms wrapping gently around his waist as her cheek rested against his back. He didn’t move, and she’d never seen him cry before so she assumed he wanted space. He quickly corrected that notion, pulling her to him and crying into her shoulder now.

**_October 2016: Holmes Manor_ **

When Ruth got upstairs, Mycroft was in his seat inside the little nook. She held the cup of tea out and he took it gratefully. He always liked to pretend he minded the honey she added, but tonight he simply pulled her against his side, tucking her under his arm. Diets usually went out the window when he was upset.

“Thank you for all of this, Ruth. I do not deserve any of it.”

“Mycroft, I will repeat this forever: you deserve love and support, okay?”

“Not after what I did to you.”

“Shut up and drink your tea. I am not letting you wallow. We’re moving on, and that includes you accepting I am a grown woman who is here and not going anywhere.”

“Yes, dear,” he said, lifting his brows.

She kissed him sweetly, settling against his side.

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know what you think.


End file.
